


A North Star, Burning

by ithilielthechosenone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Pining, RSCandyHearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithilielthechosenone/pseuds/ithilielthechosenone
Summary: Remus almost wants to stop looking at him. Or maybe he wants to stay like this, just like this, until the bricks of their flat have turned to dust and smoke, he isn’t quite certain.- They are friends who live together until the universe decides it's had enough of their antics.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71
Collections: The Candy Hearts Challenge





	A North Star, Burning

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the lovely @goodboylupin's R/S Candy Hearts challenge, for the prompt "My star":)  
> The title is taken from Fionn Regan's song "North Star Lover"  
> Thank you so much, @whataboutmyfries and A, for the beta read!

“Moony loony toony of my life, we don’t own a single salad bowl,” Sirius declares on a mild Sunday morning, poking the sofa cushions with his wand in evident boredom. Remus, who has never been a fan of its colour, considers spilling his tea on it in a very deliberate accident for maybe the 500th time since they had carried the monstrosity up into their flat. It feels a bit bizarre still, to think of this place as _theirs,_ but the shape of the word has always fit surprisingly well on Remus’s tongue.

“So? Should we do something about that?” He sets his teacup down on the table to make sure he doesn’t succumb to temptation (the sofa really _is_ incredibly ugly) and turns a little to look at Sirius. “Nah, not now. I just thought I’d point it out as a conversation starter,” he answers and then pushes his wand into the crease between the cushions until it stays there, sticking upwards. “You know,” he says when he sees Remus stare at it, “that _does_ look rather inappropriate. I’ll leave it for James to see and have a small prudish fit of giggles about.”

“You’ll let your wand stay in our sofa cushions until James comes over tomorrow?”

“You’re right, I won’t. Would’ve been funny as hell though.” Sirius sighs and takes it back.

Remus considers turning on the radio but decides against it. He doesn’t really want to hear the news right now. He doesn’t really want to hear anything right now, if he is being honest. A dog barks outside and he almost flinches at the sound, loud and echoing across their street, mostly empty this late in the evening. Sometimes Remus is surprised by his own jumpiness.

“Not that I’m any better but sometimes I wonder how someone as perceptive as you can be so startled by literally everything,” Sirius says, and Remus can hear the grin in his words without looking at him. Trust Sirius to somehow, inexplicably know what is currently plaguing the less complicated operating parts of Remus’s mind. It must be a frighteningly frequent coincidence. Remus is a man of logic and does not believe in signs of higher Powers That Be.

If he did, he muses, only half paying attention to his own thoughts, he would have more than enough reason to be quite furious with them. He can almost imagine such a conversation; _So my name’s wolfy wolfman and I’m a werewolf. Care to maybe explain, or at least apologize?_ He isn’t sure if the Powers That Be would deign to answer him. Sirius would urge him to try anyway but Remus would rather not risk the rejection. Ah yes. Here they have come down to it again.

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, smiling at Sirius because of course he is smiling at Sirius.

“I always knew you were,” Sirius replies and he looks blessed in the dim light of their old lamp; soft, painted in the colours of evening, blue and yellow and grey. Remus almost wants to stop looking at him. Or maybe he wants to stay like this, just like this, until the bricks of their flat have turned to dust and smoke, he isn’t quite certain. Forever is a long time for someone as incredibly obviously mortal as him and he has learned well not to hope for the unreachable but the heart is foolish, it seems, and Remus’s is no exception. The past few months or years or, really, the part of their lives that _matters_ with Sirius always within reach have made it impossible for him to wish it were otherwise.

The dry fingernails on a blackboard scraping of self doubt that lies coiled tightly in his core notwithstanding, Sirius deserves to be adored like this. So who is Remus, really, to fight it.

“How is Marls?” He asks so that he doesn’t tell Sirius just how addled his mind is by the closeness of their almost-knocking limbs on the ugliest sofa this side of the Atlantic.

“She’s alright, Dorcas has the flu, and she’s both trying not to catch it and take care of her.”

“Oh no, do they need anything? I can produce some soup. Probably.”

“I think they’re good. We can floo them tomorrow to check, if you want. James beat us to it and got them some potions so we shouldn’t worry. Dorcas looked like hell, though.”

“Bet she loved that.” He scoots a little closer, leaning his head on his own arm and tilting it to the side a little. It brings them that much closer, and Sirius idly taps his fingers against Remus’s wrist as he talks. It is equally soothing and maddening, but so is everything about living in close quarters with one Sirius Black.

“We should be careful when we go out next, I don’t want to become a snotty zombie for a week just because someone didn’t wash his hands before serving us a pint. And besides, we’re at Pete’s next week. He’ll kill us if we bring anything in.”

Remus nods sagely. “Yes, Healer Black. Your authority is unquestionable.”

Sirius snorts. “It’s the uniform, isn’t it? It makes me irresistible, I know.”

Remus is suddenly very glad he isn’t predisposed to blushing as violently as Sirius sometimes does. The uniform is indeed subject to many a thought, most of which Remus would prefer not to share with the general public please and thank you. “It does give you a certain air of respectability, I have to admit. Blue really is your colour.”

“Blue is your colour, too.”

“Not really. I’m more the autumn-y type according to Marls.” Sirius hums softly and looks at him for a while. _You’re so so bright,_ Remus thinks. _You’re every star I ever envied for their distant, beautiful might, but you are here for me to reach out and touch and hear and feel and that makes you more powerful than the sun itself._

“She’s right,” Sirius says finally. “You look dangerously good in red.”

“So no blue?” Remus laughs and Sirius’s fingers still against his pulse point.

“Every colour is your colour, Remus. You’re… golden.”

A hundred slow breaths won’t still his hammering heart, the galloping beat of fervent, hopeless adoration.

* * *

They don’t buy a salad bowl. On the rare occasion that Remus does make salad he just dumps it unceremoniously onto their plates. Sirius never really seems to mind, not even when it lands directly in his mashed potatoes. Lettuce stuck to their gums or not, they make do without a bowl and Remus feels very much like he has cheated capitalism. Sirius laughs that wonderful laugh of his when he tells him so. “You have to take the little victories,” Remus continues, scraping the leftovers off his plate and into a yellow Tupperware. He’s left his wand in his bedroom and sometimes taking just a little while longer to do his daily chores is a small respite in itself. Sirius comes to stand behind him with his own plate, marginally dirtier than Remus’s. Sirius, for all his apparent cleanliness and pure-blood aristocratic grace, has always been somewhat of a messy eater and after almost ten years of living with him, Remus knows it’s a lost cause.

“Is that a hint of rebellion I hear?” Sirius asks as Remus takes his plate as well. “Not that I disagree. I didn’t pay enough attention in muggle studies to know the ins and outs of their economic systems and it’s not like we learn anything about our own forms of capitalism in school. So I’ll just trust your opinion.”

“That’s always a very wise decision. At least when I’m not slobbering and covered in fur and especially if capitalism is concerned.”

“I’ve seen you sleeping, you slobber regardless what time of the month it is.”

Remus feels his face flush a little. “Well,” he says and puts Sirius’s plate to the side. “ Covered in fur then.”

“Technically you’re wearing the fur of some poor sheep.”

“Are you trying to be difficult?”

“Only because you make it so easy to rile you up.” Sirius tilts his head with a smirk. _Oh God in heaven, what have I done to you._ Remus takes the dirty towel they use to dry the dishes and smacks Sirius on the head with it before pressing it into his hands. “Here, I made us dinner. You do the cleanup. I have work to do.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sirius answers with a flourish and a salute, and Remus has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.

* * *

Half an hour into the Star Wars movie Sirius starts humming along to the music and Remus has to stare at the Emperor very hard so that he doesn’t kiss him then and there. They have left the lights on so that the television screen doesn’t strain their eyes too much. Sirius has moved closer so that their shoulders are touching and their legs would be, too if Remus were to spread them just that last centimetre. It feels like a metaphor almost. That unbreachable not-quite rift, an inch or a mile or the stretch of oceans yet undiscovered. What would he give to cross it and find safe harbour in the hallowed hint of _something_ in Sirius’s eyes whenever he looks at him just like this.

Sirius ends up throwing a blanket over them, both too lazy to get their wands and renew the heating charm and Remus can feel the tug of exhaustion in his limbs. His head is half-spinning with the noise of Darth Vader’s breathing, the hammering of their upstairs neighbours evidently trying to build a tunnel through their ceiling, and Sirius with his hand pressed infuriatingly warm against his lower back, yawning every two minutes. “I’m going to bed,” he says quietly, and Sirius’s head snaps towards him. He almost looks a little panicked, but Remus doesn’t really want to try to think about what that could mean.

They have given each other too much, patched up one scratch too many, too much laughter and happiness and _everything_ for Remus to wish it were different. _Like this_ , he thinks. _I saw and I see and you know it well. I’m but the lens through which I hope to show you so that it is as clear to you as it is to me. You are so much more than all words in this universe strung together. The only thing your parents ever did right by you was to name you after the brightest of stars._

“Wait,” Sirius says then and puts his other hand on his shoulder as if to stop him from leaving. “Stay, we’re almost done anyway. We can just watch the rest lying down.” The suggestion is a bit ridiculous and oh so close to what Remus wants, that he can’t possibly refuse Sirius. Maybe it’s because he is asking him with his eyes wide like this, maybe it’s because he never really could. “Make room for me then. And stop hogging the blanket.” He smiles, and it feels like a Decision, capital letter and all. _This is something, this is everything and maybe if you could know how much I adore every silly sock of yours accidentally thrust into my pile of laundry, you would surely think me ridiculous._

 _Maybe not,_ the honey-sweet voice of foolish hope whispers in what sounds eerily similar to Sirius’s baritone. _Maybe he wants you to stay because he wants to have you close like this._ Optimism has never been his strong suit. He is a quick study and has learned his lessons well, over just under twenty years of existence. Here is the problem, though: Sirius has always been different. There is James and Pete, of course. Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas. But none of them make it as clear, as blinding, paint it as such an indisputable almost-truth as Sirius has. _You are so much more than you think, Re._ The softest of whispers, alone in their dormitory where their closeness and Sirius’s hand on his had made Remus’s tongue heavy like sweet wine. _I don’t think you know. But I’ll make you see one day. I don’t like breaking promises but I think I can swear this one to you._

They shuffle around until Remus can lie down more comfortably, Sirius’s shins pressed maddeningly into his thighs. He dreams of Princess Leia giving orders and Han Solo with a yellow lightsaber, and amidst it all, there is somehow Sirius, flying a space-ship into nowhere in particular. At one point he half-registers a weight against his back, but he is not awake enough to be particularly bothered by it. The warmth is even welcome in a sense. He wakes a few hours later to darkness, quiet, and the sudden realisation that he is neither in his bed nor alone and half fallen off the sofa. A hand tangled in his clothes, Sirius’s breath against the skin of his neck. _Don’t let go,_ he thinks, _don’t go._

* * *

It happens quietly. The land is always moving but the earthquake still feels sudden; the river becomes the sea and the waters mingle, salty and fresh.

They are sorting through their socks, the entire laundry basket poured onto Remus’s bed one early morning; and somewhere between the smell of freshly washed clothes, the light of the morning sun on Sirius’s face and the soft warmth of him pressing one of Remus’s jumpers against him and into his hands, Remus stills. He drops the shirt he had been folding and instead of taking the jumper from Sirius’s hands; he wraps his fingers around his wrists, trapping them against his chest. He imagines he can feel the flutter of Sirius’s pulse when he moves his thumb just so. Something stutters to a halt behind Sirius’s irises, their grey shifts slightly and Remus hears his own sudden intake of breath. He almost crumbles then, when Sirius slips his hands from beneath Remus’s fingers. One settles on his thigh and the other moves to touch the side of his neck, travelling upwards until it settles on his jawbone, a thumb across his cheek and Remus finds himself wanting to cry a little at how long he has wanted this. Hoping and wishing, the right guess at the right time, here they are:

Stumbling staccato on stuttering strings, the lines of the composer’s script, become illegible with time. Who is to know, really, what intentions they had wished to remain across the decades? Who is to know what lay in their hearts as they sat and thought and wrote and tried? What is left is interpretation and the scrambling for meaning that might once have been there, might still be there, might always stay on and on and on throughout indefinable time. Here is the search between the lines that in theory never seems thus frightening. The variable, the equation and every possible x is _you with me in whatever way we might be granted._

“Remus,” Sirius says, fingers splaying out across his jaw so softly that Remus’s eyes flutter shut. “Remus.” And then he leans down to kiss him, tilting his head up slightly for a better angle. Remus feels blinded by it, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing even with his eyes open, he is sure of it. He reaches upwards, drawn towards Sirius like a bird to the sky, and pushes his hand into Sirius’s hair, the other clutching the fabric of his shirt to draw him even closer. He is so _warm and dear and so much, I will never have enough of this until the day I’ve given you my last breath._ He can feel Sirius’s heartbeat beneath his hands and he spreads his fingers to better make out its hammering rhythm, fast as if from running. His head is spinning a little when he leans in again and again to kiss him and kiss him until his lips feel raw with it.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius gasps, a hand on Remus’s waist, thumb digging into the curve of his hipbone. “I never knew.”

Remus kisses him again in answer. There will be time for words later, when the fervour in their blood has cooled enough to form them so that the small fraction of emotion that have been given the power of description can be known and said, spoken aloud for the first time. _“How could I not?”_ Remus will laugh, _“You are kind and good and wonderful. I don’t need a knack for astronomy to follow you home.”_

_“Because I am the brightest star?”_

_“Because you_ are _home, beautiful idiot.”_ Sirius will press a kiss to his cheek, helpless romanticism and all, and he will feel the smile on his lips as he does it. _My home, my sea and anchor. My star most dear._


End file.
